Love in Lingerie(52)

“Yes.” God, I want this. I want him to be raw and rough. He shoves inside of me, and it’s an invasion. There are no slow and controlled strokes, no gentle draws to allow my body to adjust. This is straight fucking, and it is exactly how I’d always pictured Trey would do it—wild and furious, the bite of his fingernails into my skin, the slam of his thick cock in and out, the grunt of him, the slap of our thighs, the moment when he reaches forward, his hands jerking at the bra that still hangs from my shoulders. “Keep your hands on the couch,” he grits out, and he grips one of my shoulders, using it for leverage, as if I am a wild stallion that he is taming. It takes only seconds for me to come, for the last twenty minutes of teasing to erupt into one overwhelming shatter of senses. I claw at the leather, I scream his name, and when my entire body tenses, it is a rolling, tumbling fall of ecstasy that doesn’t stop, the animalistic sounds coming from him, the continual mad thrusts of his body, the jerk of the lace, the assault of cock and balls against and inside of me … I scream over and over, and if this is a Trey Marks orgasm, I am ruined for life. I cannot, will not, ever find this again. I cannot, will not, ever experience this again. There is no way that a body can feel this good, can come apart this completely, and survive. I hover in some plane, some beautiful place where it doesn’t end, where he and I are fully connected, every line of our bodies intact. When I come back to life, it is with a shudder, my arms falling from the couch, my body pitching forward, and when my cheek hits the couch, I open my eyes.

Fire glowing, its shape blurry, my eyes tearing. Cool air against my skin, yet I’m warm everywhere, his body thrusting, the slap of us together like a chant in the room. He is saying something, something about me, something about love and fucking and how I feel. He is sliding his hands down my arms, pulling my wrists together at the small of my back, and then they are being bound by his grip, a tight hold while he continues, while he thrusts and pulls, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so wet, so warm, so oblivious to everything but the moment where we connect, the thick feel of him inside of me, the fill and then empty, perfection and then need. He moves me to the side, where my head has more room against the seat of the couch, and I feel everything shift as he climbs onto the leather, my ass up in the air, hands still held behind my back. He pushes back inside and the feeling is different, the angle new, the pleasure a twisted blend of something else, and any coherent thought is gone as he leans forward, one hand playing over my nipples. These thrusts are slower, deeper, more intense. He squeezes my breasts and I tell him he is a god. He pulls on them gently, rubs his fingers over their curves and he tells me how much he loves me.

Then, his hands release my wrists and the pace picks up.

At some point, I am against the last window, the tall pane of glass that doesn’t open, my bare breasts against the cold surface, my cheek pressed to it, his hand knotted in my hair, holding me in place. The other is at my hip, and he moves fluidly and perfectly, not all of the way in, just little notches of pleasure that drive me to another orgasm, one where my legs collapse and he carries me to the floor, lying me on my back.

“I’m going to come,” he pants out, almost apologetically, as if his performance is weak, and this is his third thrust, and he just can’t control himself. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside of me.”

“Fuck, I’m glad you said that.” His tempo increases, and when he comes, he says my name in a way that is almost a prayer, his breaths ragged, his eyes on me. When he gives a final shuddering push, I wrap my arms around him and whisper out everything I’ve never said. How much I love him. How much I’ve needed him. How much, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the night, for our entire friendship, I’ve wanted him.

He falls onto the rug and pulls me on top of him. “Tell me you’ll stay with me. Tell me this is forever.”

“It is.” I lift my head off his chest and look into his eyes. Inside, a part of me worries. Inside, a part of me is terrified. But when I look into his eyes, when I see the man I know, it all goes away.

There are few things I know in life. But I know that look in his eyes. I know when he is committed to something, when he is making a promise that he will fight with every bit of his soul to keep. He has that look when it comes to his company, the one he’s risking for us. And this look is even stronger. This look is one dipped in love.

He swallows, his jaw tightening, his throat moving, and his eyes change, just a little, before he speaks.

“Marry me,” he says, and for such a strong man, there is so much vulnerability in those vowels.





chapter 20

Him

I don’t know where the words come from. They fall out of my mouth and hang between us, and damn if I never want to put them back in.

Marriage is something I stopped thinking about a long time ago, around the first time I had a husband ask me to screw his wife. Monogamy just didn’t seem to be that sacred a concept, the thought of freedom more tantalizing. But then I met her—I fell for her. An hour ago, I was afraid to bring up dating, afraid at the risk I was bringing to my company and our friendship. That was just an hour ago. And now, a proposal? It’s too quick, ridiculously too quick. I’m going to scare her off, going to ruin everything. Her loving me isn’t the same as a commitment that will bind us—

“Trey.” She touches my face, her fingers soft, and it’s over. You don’t respond to a marriage proposal with a name. I close my eyes and can feel the hopelessness when it hits, the down that comes after a high. Her lips brush against mine, her nails soft against my cheeks, the tickle of her hair as it falls against my ear.